Spyfever
by Copgirl
Summary: London, 1892: Mycroft Holmes works in a government office that concerns itself with international relations. When a man is murdered and forged pieces of art are discovered, Mycroft is sent on an undercover mission; where he'll work with a policeman from NSY. This story is AU - sort of - because of the Victorian time it takes place in but those are the characters created by Moftiss
1. Chapter 1

Since the Sherlock Special is going to take place in the Victorian Era I decided I too wanted to write a story with "our" Sherlock characters in it. I'm trying to be as accurate as possible in regard of that era but some things I just had to make up. At the end of some chapters you might find a note with facts that I wove into the story. Since the story is still in the process of been written I might not update as quickly and as frequently as usually.

At the time the story takes place, Mycroft is 27 years old and he is not the British Government like in the series but a man who studied history, anthropology and archaeology. Greg Lestrade is working for the police but when the story takes place, he has the rank of a constable.

Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade are the leading characters but Sherlock and some of the others are present too.

My thanks go again to my wonderful Beta Jack63kids. Without her the story would perhaps be possible but it wouldn't be half as good.

* * *

"How good of you to finally join us, Holmes. Do sit down."

Mycroft darted to the seat Lord Percy indicated with a nod of his head. He quickly scanned the three other people present. Prime Minister Robert Cecil, William Kent, a high ranking member of the Metropolitan Police, and a man Mycroft didn't recognize but whose uniform indicated his rank was that of a Major-General.

Mycroft was certain he knew what this meeting was about but was surprised that he hadn't been informed until three minutes ago.

"Holmes, I'm certain I don't need to emphasise that what is said in this room is to be treated with strict confidentiality."

Mycroft nodded, wondering why Lord Percy saw the need to point out the confidentiality, unless...

"Over the course of the past two years priceless masterpieces were stolen from museums all over Europe," Percy began. Mycroft gritted his teeth. He had been the one who had brought this information to Lord Percy's attention. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that the man would present this information like he had uncovered it himself.

"A painting by Tizian from the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg, baroque jewellery from the Blue Vault in Dresden..."

"Green," Mycroft murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" Lord Percy glared at his underling.

"Sir, it's the Green Vault in Dresden," Mycroft replied, the adding of 'you fool' unvoiced but still in place if one was inclined to listen closely.

"Certainly," Lord Percy said. "The Green Vault in Dresden and a painting by Botticelli from the Ufizzi gallery in Florence, to name only a few. All these pieces of art were stolen from the museums and replaced with professionally made forgeries."

"About how many forgeries are we discussing?" William Kent asked.

"Thirty but it might as well be fifty."

The three guests gasped.

"Pray tell me, how exactly does this concerns us?" the Prime Minister asked, when he had recovered from the shock. "I believe nothing has been stolen from a British museum or you would have said so right away, am I not right?"

"Four original paintings were secured from a thief who confessed he had stolen them from a flat in Belgravia."

"Then perhaps Kent could get one of his lot to interview the owner of the flat and ask him where he obtained the paintings," Cecil suggested with an air of exasperation about the obvious lack of resourcefulness in the room.

"I presume that is not going to work because the owner of the flat is dead," the Major-General, who's name Mycroft had yet to learn, spoke up.

Lord Percy nodded, dumbfounded.

"Don't look so surprised. Every one who reads the newspaper", the Major-General winked at Mycroft, "knows that a resident of Belgravia, an Irish noble-man by the name of Patrick O'Shea, was found dead in Islington two weeks ago. His throat had been slit. I presume O'Shea is the former resident of the flat in Belgravia. The article said he lived alone and therefore there's no-one left to question."

"That is right," Lord Percy replied, having recovered from the surprise.

"What happened to the paintings?" the Prime Minster asked, looking both at Kent and Lord Percy.

"They were transferred here to confirm their authenticity," Kent replied. And with a nod to Mycroft he added, "by him."

The Prime Ministers eyebrows shot up. "Isn't he a bit young for us to base measures on his assertion?"

For the first time Lord Percy seemed to acknowledge Mycroft's abilities. "I dare say, without getting carried away, that young Mr Holmes here is the best qualified individual in London to make this assertion." Clapping his hands together he continued, "And his qualification is the reason why I asked him to join us."

That last sentence's message sounded rather positive but an uneasy feeling began to settle in Mycroft's gut.

"Proof was found that O'Shea frequented a gentlemen's club in Islington. William told me, that they already have a contact in that club."

Kent nodded his agreement. "Yes, although he is not very bright. I'm certain he wouldn't be able to tell a Michaelangelo from a Turner. But he is useful."

Lord Percy grinned. "Therefore I'm going to send young Mr Holmes here to get in touch with William's twit and perhaps together they can find out if the death of Patrick O'Shea was related to the pieces of art found in his flat or coincidence."

* * *

Fact: At the time the story takes place, Robert Cecil was Prime Minister.


	2. Chapter 2

The hansom cab stopped right in front of the gentlemen's club. It was half past three and Mycroft had been informed that his name had been included on the list of exclusive members who were allowed to enjoy every amusement the club offered.

 _Earl's Backyard_. Mycroft shook his head upon reading the peculiar name.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his coat and walked with his head held high towards the door. It was opened by a broad-shouldered man in butler's attire.

"Edwin Holmes," Mycroft introduced himself. The name Holmes was common enough but he used his second name instead of Mycroft, which was rather unusual.

Once the butler, who introduced himself as Newton, had checked that his name was indeed on the list, he took Mycroft's coat and top-hat and led him into the salon. There a colourful collection of mostly men but also a few women were drinking tea, playing cards or were reading the newspaper. In a separate room a group of men was enjoying alcoholic drinks and tobacco smoke curled up to the ceiling.

Before Mycroft took a seat in the reading room, Newton informed him, that the 'Red Ring' would open at six. The 'Red Ring' Mycroft already knew, was the room only selected insiders were allowed to enter and the amusement there varied from weekday to weekday. Today was Thursday, which apparently was the most popular but Mycroft was only concerned whether he could get in touch with this insider William Kent had talked about. He hadn't been given a name and only this morning he had received a note through a messenger that he should wear a white rose in his button-hole and look out for the initials 'GG'.

A cup of tea was placed on the table next to him as well as _The Times_ he had ordered. The date was Thursday, 10th March 1892.

Over the course of the afternoon, Mycroft talked to several of the club members. A new face was always reason for curiosity and because Mycroft was seeking information he needed to talk to those who approached him. Having an excessively good memory, Mycroft filed everything away to make notes later on.

At six o'clock sharp a gong resounded and people began to troop through a long corridor leading deeper into the building. During the previous half hour the amount of people in the club and with them the noise-level had steadily increased, and Mycroft wondered if it was too much to ask for a little peace and quiet. If he had to choose a club for himself, it would be one with considerably less noise and certainly fewer people.

Still, he had a mission to accomplish and that was what he would do. Although he wondered why it was him and not a professional spy who had to get in contact with this 'GG'. Mycroft had studied history, anthropology and archaeology in Oxford because he loved learning and in due course to understand the world around him. His knack for languages had gained him entry into the government office that concerned itself with international relations but not in his wildest dreams had he foreseen that one day he would have to do leg-work for the government.

Taking a seat at an aisle next to a young woman he looked around. The room was built like the Roman Forum and the arena in the middle had a red boundary all the way around, hence the name 'Red Ring'.

Cheers startled Mycroft from his thoughts. What on earth...? Mycroft stared with utter dismay at the spectacle that was unfolding in the arena. Under roaring applause a group of twenty women dressed in ridiculous clothes entered and were immediately divided into pairs. Then a ring master read the rules for mud-wrestling to the expectant audience as well as the women and the spectacle began.

It took almost an hour until finally the winner was awarded the rank of the Wrestling Valkyrie and the women left. Mycroft was more than ready to leave as well. He had taken the time to study every person within the room but had neither discovered the initials 'GG' nor somebody who seemed to pay closer attention to him. Except perhaps John Carson, a man in his forties he had talked to earlier. Carson had introduced himself as a partner of ship owners and in return Mycroft had provided his own cover story.

During the show Mycroft had done his best to look excited, knowing he had to blend in. He had thought Carson had looked his way a couple of times but directly next to Mycroft sat a young woman who's beauty might have drawn Carson's attention.

Studying the gathered audience again, Mycroft was inclined to believe that perhaps his contact wasn't there after all. Or he was being very, very careful.

With a shout and a fanfare, audible even over the erupting roaring sound of clapping and cheering, the ring master announced the evening's highlight.

"There's no need for introduction because he is undefeated for three month in a row," the ring master cried. "I give you the Gregorian Gladiator!"

The crowd went wild.

'Good gracious,' Mycroft thought. The Gregorian Gladiator. GG. Some mindless brute who excelled in mud-wrestling would be his contact.

Two women in front of him had jumped up in excitement but suddenly sat down giggling and Mycroft found himself confronted with what he could only describe as the incarnation of sin itself. Bathed in the arena's light and clad in only a loincloth stood a well-built, masculine man. Well, of course he was masculine, he was a man after all but at this sight Mycroft's mind had immediately turned to mush and was only capable of rambling. It was probably his imagination that he found the dark eyes of this magnificent creation of man directed at him and that didn't help one bit. Broad shoulders, narrow hips and strong thighs. Mycroft wondered how it was possible that this man was close to four-hundred years old because he had undoubtedly modelled for Michelangelo when he created his 'David'.

Feeling a bit dizzy, Mycroft blinked and then was busy hyperventilating because the Gregorian Gladiator had for some reason turned and was now presenting a very presentable backside; the skin of his strong back positively golden.

So enraptured was Mycroft in his studies that he almost missed that the undefeated champion stepped into the mud pit, following a really mean looking brute.

Graceful and elegant. Yes, those were the words that described best how this previously golden-skinned now mud-caked Adonis ploughed through the mud; throwing his whole body into the task of causing the other man to submit.

Naturally, the Gregorian God, ah not quite, the Gregorian Gladiator! was victorious and Mycroft joined in when the audience cheered. His cries got caught in his throat though, when all of a sudden the champion took a bucket that was offered to him and poured the water over his head, effectively washing off the mud and turning the loincloth into a virtually translucent affair. While Mycroft tried to get his body under control because within seconds his trousers had gone from snug to pinching, he almost missed that the champion wound his way through the crowd and kept coming closer and closer.

Accepting pats on the shoulder but elegantly avoiding groping hands, the champion eventually stood in front of Mycroft. Warm brown eyes shone when he leaned close and stole the rose from Mycroft's button-hole, whispering in his ear, "not today, we're being watched", before handing the rose to the pretty woman who sat next to Mycroft with a dazzling smile. Unperturbed the man continued on his way through the crowd and left the room.

'Very clever,' thought Mycroft, when his brain came online again. Whoever might have watched would have thought it would have been an apology that had been whispered in his ear. Never mind that the man's luscious lips had brushed the shell of Mycroft's ear.

After the show most people gathered in the club again to talk about the spectacle and enjoy another round of drinks. Mycroft stayed close to the woman, who had received the rose, and her companion. Her name was Helen Webb and she was accompanied by her younger brother Robert Irvin. Helen had lost her husband two years previously and had just recently finished the socially demanded period of mourning. Mycroft guessed her age no more than twenty-three and therefore was not surprised that Helen Webb kept prattling on about the dresses she saw other women wear, the frivolous show she had seen, the man who had handed her the rose and a comprehensive overview about the club and its members.

When Mycroft finally left, he was exhausted but had learned more about the club members by listening to Helen Webb than he would have been able to gather himself over the course of a whole week.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg Lestrade silently climbed the stairs to his room he lived in because he didn't want to disturb the family that slept in the set of rooms on the ground-floor. Kneeling in front of his bed he removed a loose floor board and pulled out a notebook to write down his observations. Sitting on his bed, his back resting against the wall, he felt quite unable to remember what is was he wanted to write down. Instead his mind went back to his contact in the club.

When Greg had received the information that the government would send a spy, his mind had conjured the image of a dark, sinister spook. While the girls had been on, Greg had scanned the audience for his contact. He had been going to this club long enough to know most faces. Spotting him had been easy but if it hadn't been for the rose in the button-hole, he wouldn't have thought that this man was a spy from the government. Instead of a spy with scars on his face he had discovered an attractive man slightly younger than himself, with auburn hair, fair skin and clear blue eyes. Greg classified him as intelligent and educated but for a spy, who was supposed to blend in, he had looked unbelievably out of place in the crowd.

Giving up on writing for the night, Greg returned the book to its hiding place. He took off his clothes, put on his night-shirt and went into bed. He was dog-tired but for some time sleep kept eluding him. What sort of man might this spy be? When Greg finally fell asleep it was with a smile on his face because he felt sure that the attraction he had felt wasn't one-sided.

The following morning Greg found his head somewhat clearer than the night before. But with that a disturbing thought came to the forefront of his mind. While he was drinking coffee and eating his usual breakfast, consisting of bread and two eggs, he wondered if that man had been really sent by the government or by those men he investigated, trying to lure him into a trap. Perhaps someone knew that he enjoyed men and women alike and had sent the elegant gentleman, hoping Greg would confide in him. He very much hoped this was not the case but how could he be certain?

Greg knew that a couple of men in the club suspected him of working for the police. He had already taken precautions by getting help from an informant nobody knew about, not even his superior.

Yes, that was probably the solution. He needed to get in touch and ask him about the government spy.

Packing a piece of bread, Greg headed for Camden Lock where he knew he would find one of the numerous, homeless children who would deliver a message to Sherlock Holmes in exchange for food.

oOo

Mycroft had found himself in a similar state of mind once he returned to the flat he occupied during this operation. He had found lodging in a house in Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, the landlady, was very nosy and a bit weird in his opinion but she made a decent cup of tea and the flat was well kept.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you're back early. Is everything all right?" The landlady called out, when Mycroft climbed the stairs to his rooms.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine. A cup of tea would be very much appreciated though," he added on an afterthought, knowing that would get her out of his hair for a while.

Mycroft had already begun writing down his findings when Mrs Hudson came in with the tray. She set it down on the side table next to his chair. Her head was slightly tilted and Mycroft knew she was trying to decipher the notes he made. With her black widow's attire and white apron she looked a little like a curious magpie but Mycroft knew she wouldn't be able to read his notes. Writing in French but using a mixture of Greek and Cyrillic script, his notes were quite safe from most curious eyes.

It was difficult but Mycroft managed to concentrate long enough to have an outline of the first day in the club. It was with a relieved sigh though when could finally allow himself to think about the part of the evening he had longed to review the whole time; his contact, the Gregorian Gladiator. That designation was too long, not to mention ridiculous. Until he got an actual name, Mycroft decided to refer to him as David. Michelangelo, when he had created this masterpiece of Renaissance sculpture, certainly had glimpsed into the future and discovered this rare beauty of a man.

Blushing and chuckling about his own fatuity, Mycroft stood up and poured himself a snifter of brandy. Sipping the drink and replaying the moment when the man had taken the rose from his button-hole while brushing the lobe of his ear with those desirable lips, Mycroft decided that David being his contact, made the inconvenience of living in different quarters and abandoning his usual work more than worthwhile.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg was already in bed and about to fall asleep when he heard a knock on the window. It took a second and even a third knock for him to understand that someone demanded to be let in. Opening the window he helped Sherlock Holmes, who was dangling from the edge of the roof, to climb inside.

"I'm not an acrobat," the young man growled, once Greg had closed the window. "How long did you plan to leave me hanging from that roof?"

"Had I known you would climb through my window, I would have left it open."

"Imbecile," Sherlock muttered before he walked further into the room and began rummaging through a chest of drawers.

"Oi, what do you think you're doing?" Greg demanded to know.

"I'm hungry."

"First, you won't find food hidden between my socks and second, you could just ask," Greg told him before he shut the drawer, almost crushing Sherlock's fingers. "Wait a moment," he told him, ignoring the glare.

Greg scurried downstairs to the kitchen, took some bread and cheese and went back, handing everything to Sherlock.

Sitting on Greg's bed, Sherlock began eating. "You wanted to see me, here I am," he said between two bites.

Watching Sherlock eat, Greg told him about the spy the government had sent and that he felt the man wasn't an actual spy.

"What name does he use?" Sherlock asked, swallowing the last bit of bread and washing it down with the weak beer from a cup on Greg's desk.

"Edwin Holmes," Greg said. "A relative of yours?"

Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared in the mop of hair that fell onto his forehead but instead of answering he asked another question. "What does he look like?"

"Fair skin, blue eyes, auburn hair, well built, elegant hands that aren't used for manual labour."

Naturally Sherlock noticed the soft smile on the policeman's face.

"You are attracted to him," he stated.

Greg didn't even try to deny it. He scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. Brushing breadcrumbs from his clothes he went to the door. "Expect me tomorrow night at the same time. And try to get some wine. The beer was disgusting."

"Nobody told you to drink it," Greg replied. "Why aren't you leaving through the window?" he asked when Sherlock opened the door. "That's how you got in."

"If somebody was watching the house that's what would be expected," Sherlock told him, hurried down the stairs and out of the front door without making a sound.

After he had brushed the breadcrumbs from the blanket to the floor Greg went back to bed. He hoped Sherlock would come back the following night with good news. He wanted this Edwin Holmes to be his real contact; someone he could trust.

He wondered if Sherlock was related to Edwin. But then, Holmes was a common enough last name.

oOo

Mycroft was just eating breakfast when he heard excited cries from Mrs Hudson downstairs. Less than a minute later the door burst open and his younger brother strolled in, looking around curiously.

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft greeted him, not bothering to ask how Sherlock knew that he was currently lodging in a flat at Baker Street. The elder Holmes kept reading the newspaper, waiting for his visitor to end his inspection of the room.

Mrs Hudson came in and, to Mycroft's great surprise, brought a tray with tea and freshly baked scones. Neither tea nor scones were for him but for Sherlock, who smiled at Mycroft's landlady and smirked at his brother before he took a large bite of the crumbly pastry.

"Now, brother dear, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Mycroft asked, wondering if he could successfully steal half a scone without getting his wrist slapped.

"Rumour has it, that you're pretending to be a spy these days," Sherlock told him, once he had washed down the first scone with a mouthful of tea and moved the plate out of his brother's reach.

' _Darn!_ '

Knowing it would be futile to deny it, Mycroft merely nodded. "That's true. Paintings have been forged and I'm investigating in a club called 'Earl's Backyard'."

Upon hearing the word investigating, Sherlock snorted. "It's dangerous business you're sticking your nose into. Shouldn't you leave it to the professionals?"

"A policeman is already involved but they needed somebody to blend in and talk to the members of the club. Somebody who has knowledge about art and has the ability to recognize a forged masterpiece."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth pulled down because he knew that his own knowledge about art was nil.

"I suppose you blended in really well when the Gregorian Gladiator took the stage."

Sherlock was satisfied to see his sibling blush.

"David!" Mycroft blurted out.

"David?"

If anything, Mycroft's face turned an even darker shade of scarlet upon Sherlock's gloating.

"I needed a designation for my contact and chose the name David," Mycroft said.

Sherlock was certain there was more to the name David than it simply being a designation but knowing his brother wouldn't volunteer further information he let it go for now.

"I know him," Sherlock said. "The policeman. He's as much a fool as the rest of the police but he allows me to investigate alongside him."

Mycroft put away his newspaper for good and gave Sherlock his full attention.

"How long have you been investigating the club? And more importantly, why? I discovered the forgery just a few weeks ago but … ah … David must have been on it at least three month.

"The police were investigating a club called ' _Rembrandt's Home_ ' well over a year ago under the suspicion it was a place for smugglers but instead of observing first, they barged in and searched the place. They discovered nothing of significance but a few prostitutes. ' _Rembrandt's Home_ ' burnt down just weeks later but several of the former members moved on to ' _Earl's Backyard_ '."

Sherlock drank his tea before he continued.

"I heard, that hours after the place was searched, a couple of policemen spoke about a jewelled egg they had seen. The Detective Inspector in charge went back with one of them but the egg was no longer there."

"The lost Fabergé egg!" Mycroft cried out. "The Hen with Sapphire pendant. It was made in 1886 for Tsar Alexander III, who allegedly was to present it to his wife, the Empress Maria Feodorovna but it is said that the Fabergé egg disappeared before she ever laid eyes on it.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, not the least bit interested in that egg, "once ' _Rembrandt's Home_ ' had burnt down the police terminated their investigations until Commissioner William Kent heard about it. He thinks that there had been an insider who gave away that the police was about to search ' _Rembrandt's Home_ '. The only policeman currently actively investigating is … ah … David."

Mycroft blinked. That was a lot to take in. And so much responsibility resting just on one set of shoulders; as broad and beautiful as said shoulders might be.

"Enough idle chatter." Sherlock jumped up from his chair. "You could have come up with a more inventive name than Edwin Holmes," he said, looking at his brother with glittering eyes.

"Nobody but our parents and you know that is my second name," Mycroft replied. "And I promise to be careful."

Sherlock huffed over the notion that he could be worried about his brother's safety. He was almost out of the door when Mycroft called out. "Wait!"

"What is it now?"

"About David, what is his real name?" Mycroft asked, involuntarily tugging at one of his ears.

Sherlock blinked before he shrugged. "I have no idea," he said and was out of the door before Mycroft recovered from the surprise.

* * *

Fact: Tsar Alexander indeed gave Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs to his wife and eventually "The Hen with Saphire pendant" was lost. When though, I don't know.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg Lestrade had been only fifteen when his parents had died from cholera but he had found a new home with his aunt Delia and her three daughters. Delia Turner had been running a bakery since her husband had drowned when a ship he sailed on had gone down with all the crew and until Greg had applied for the police, he had worked for his aunt.

He was still living quite happily in his room upstairs from the bakery. His aunt received rent from him and in return Greg was never hungry and had a place he called home.

William Kent had agreed that while Greg was on his mission, he shouldn't do the duties that came with being a policeman. The risk of running into one of the club members he was investigating, was too great. Therefore he had taken up the labour he had been used to before he became a policeman, helping on the local market as well as in the bakery.

In a tiny bathroom in the bake house stood a bathtub, which Greg had secured for himself that evening. He was feeling quite disgusting after he had worked very hard from dawn to dusk. The bake house was deserted and quiet, and sinking into the water with a sigh, Greg closed his eyes.

When Sherlock Holmes charged into the room mere minutes later, Greg gave a startled cry and tried to cover himself.

Sherlock huffed. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before and you are not my type." He refrained from mentioning that his brother though would have either fainted at the sight or would be already busy shedding his clothes to join him in the tub.

Greg wasn't certain whether he should be relieved or insulted but decided just to be annoyed.

"You are early and I'd like some privacy. So, get out!" he told his visitor.

"No," Sherlock replied simply, before he swept Greg's clothes to the floor from where they had been left on a stool in the corner and then he took a seat.

For a second Greg considered throwing the bar of soap at Sherlock's head but even if he'd score a hit, he would have to leave the water to reclaim it.

He sighed in defeat. "Alright, what have you found out?"

"Edwin Holmes is indeed your contact. He is the person the government sent in to spy, although he has no experience working as one. Further you might need to know that he chose the code name David for you."

Greg let out the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding and Sherlock gazed at him, obviously contemplating his reaction before he walked to the door.

"Wait!" Greg called out. "That is all you have to tell me?"

The hand on the door handle, Sherlock turned. "Perhaps one more thing. Be careful with your heart." Before the information had even sunk in, Sherlock was gone, leaving the door ajar and a rather befuddled policeman behind.

oOo

To gain insight into _Earl's Backyard_ , Greg helped the caretaker of the club every so often. A building of that size required constant maintenance and the owner was unwilling to spend money for services of craftsmen as long as the caretaker, a man in his sixties by the name of Henry Jones, was able to do it. Old Henry was only too glad to accept Greg's help for he was quite skilled and in return Greg had plenty of opportunity to eavesdrop and pry around the club.

It was around lunchtime the day after Sherlock's visit when Greg had to repair one of the large bookshelves in the reading-room. At that time most club-members either were dining or wouldn't arrive until much later.

Walking into the reading-room, Greg recognised Edwin Holmes immediately. Dressed in a grey, bespoke three-piece suit, the man stood in front of the shelf, perusing a book he had apparently just picked up. They always advertised repair work with a sign at the door and usually people kept away from the room when such a sign was in evidence ; so it was a rare chance to speak to his contact alone.

Greg closed the door softly and approached the reading man. "Good day, Mr. Holmes. I apologise for disturbing you but I need to repair two boards on this shelf."

Mycroft turned to tell the artisan to go on and do his work but the words got stuck in his throat when he saw who stood in front of him.

Greg felt relieved that it was the spy's turn to say something because one look from those scintillating blue eyes had rendered him speechless.

"I was looking for a book," Mycroft replied, mentally cringing because standing in front of a book-shelf, looking for a book was the natural thing people tended to do.

"And have you found something to your liking?"

How kind and polite not to comment on his mental glitch. "Actually I have." Mycroft kept looking at the handsome man right in front of him, marvelling at the light blush that had begun to adorn his face.

It came to him after a slight delay that the question had probably referred to a book. Looking at the one he had just picked up, Mycroft read the title. "The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde. It was published just last year but I haven't got around to reading it."

"Neither have I," Greg answered, his brain in a similar state of stasis. He blinked and cleared his throat. "So far we haven't had time to compare our findings. I need to work on those boards but if you stay I can try to tell you what I've discovered so far."

Mycroft nodded and since they were alone and hadn't been properly introduced, he offered his hand. "Edwin Holmes."

Greg took the offered hand, enjoying the feeling of the long fingers curling around his own. "And you might call me David," Greg said, remembering Sherlock's words. He had no idea why Edwin blushed but maybe that was normal for people with skin that was as sublime as his.

They held each others hand several seconds longer than it was socially acceptable and ended the handshake with obvious reluctance.

Greg knelt down and began repairing the shelf, while Mycroft sat in an armchair nearby, listening to his contact's words. All the while he held the book like he was reading, in case somebody suddenly came in. Although, there was no chance in the world that he would be able to read a single line because the mischievous policeman/ artisan had knelt down in a truly salacious angle that displayed his bottom in high relief to his small but extremely appreciative audience.

Fortunately, before Greg had begun with his work, fully aware of the pair of eyes glued to his behind, he had suggested they meet the following night at ten o'clock at the boat-house in Regent's Park to talk about the case they were working on. The park would be closed at that time but Greg knew that nobody kept watch, except at the zoo. Therefore, when Newton walked in to check on Greg's progress on the shelf, Mycroft accompanied the butler on his way out with only a polite "Good afternoon!"


	6. Chapter 6

My thanks go to Johnsarmylady who kindly helped to beta. This is just another rather short chapter. I promise that the next one is going to be longer.

* * *

In the early evening Mycroft walked to King's Cross station, where Lord Percy's private carriage picked him up. Unless one paid attention, the carriage as well as the horses looked like any other carriage in London but Mycroft didn't want to risk being observed.

The carriage took him to Lord Percy's house in Kensington where Mycroft was shown into a salon by the butler. His employer wore black trousers, a white shirt and a fashionable red jacket.

"Marvellous, Holmes, you're right on time. What do you want to drink? I've got a very nice brandy but of course there's whisky or gin."

Mycroft chose gin, while Percy poured himself a generous dash of whisky. Before they settled near the fireplace, Mycroft was offered a cigar, which he declined.

"Now, Holmes, how are your investigations going?"

Trust no-one! That had been the single point all books Mycroft had read about spying and undercover-work agreed upon; even the fictional ones. Therefore he told Lord Percy as much as he felt safe to tell but kept his information ambiguous when it came to his contact. His employer either didn't care or notice. He asked a few questions but was understanding that so far Mycroft didn't have much to tell, especially since he had been in the club only a few days.

"Sir, if you don't mind my asking," Mycroft spoke up eventually, "the Major-General, who was here the other day, who is he?"

Lord Percy produced a short, humourless laugh. "The Prime Minister brought him and the only thing I know about him is his name; George Henry Stone. Nobody really knows what he does but it is said, he knows more about Robert Cecil than his wife and has more influence than the Prime Minister himself. He is a very dangerous man, if I might say so."

Percy stood up. "I have another engagement tonight, Holmes, and I need my carriage but perhaps we can drop you off along the way?"

Mycroft nodded. "Most kind, sir."

As if on cue, Lord Percy's butler entered.

"Tell Piet that Mr Holmes will accompany us," Percy said and the butler disappeared.

Lord Percy and Mycroft got their coats and walked outside where the carriage driver was just helping another man who was lugging a wooden crate to a side entrance.

"Is that my delivery from Italy?" Percy shouted excitedly, already walking over to read the label on the crate. "Yes, it is. How utterly delightful!" Percy turned to Mycroft. "The best vermouth directly from Italy. Before we leave, we have to sample a glass."

The carriage driver, obviously used to his employer's antics, returned a minute later, carrying a tray with a bottle of vermouth and two glasses. Percy opened the bottle and poured a generous amount into each glass and handed one to Mycroft.

"To your health!" Percy proclaimed and after Mycroft had returned, they downed their drinks.

"Delicious," Percy said. "What a delightful drink."

Mycroft tried his best to hide his disgust but nodded politely, hoping the taste would leave his mouth sooner rather than later. Fortunately, Percy didn't ask Mycroft to join him for a second glass. Instead they got into the carriage and drove off.

oOo

When Mycroft woke up, his head hurt and he felt sick to the stomach. He tried to sit up but a hand on his chest held him down.

"Better you don't move just yet."

Mycroft blinked and tried to get some control of his tongue. Slowly a face came into focus and he recognised Major-General Stone.

The man raised Mycroft's head carefully and pressed a bottle to his lips. "Drink this, but no more than a sip."

Mycroft obeyed and swallowed a mouthful of water. After another minute Stone gave him another mouthful of water and soon Mycroft was able to sit up without too much trouble. He had been lying on a strip of lawn between Park Lane and Hyde Park.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We found you lying here just a few minutes ago. Do you remember anything?" Stone asked.

Mycroft shook his head. A bad idea because he felt bile raising from his stomach. Closing his eyes, a minute passed before he opened them again.

He remembered that Lord Percy had told him about a restaurant he planned to visit and they had agreed that Mycroft would exit the carriage before it turned and continue towards Grosvenor Square. When he had left the carriage it had been about half past six but it was completely dark now. Mycroft guessed that an hour must have passed since then.

Stone helped him standing up and Mycroft checked his clothes. He never carried more money with him than was necessary but the money as well as the ring he always wore on his right hand were gone. There was a lump on the back of his head, where apparently he had been hit.

"Come on, let's get you home," Stone said. He and the driver of his carriage helped him inside. The carriage delivered him to his current residence at Baker Street where Stone knocked on the door.

When Mrs Hudson opened, Stone told her that her lodger had been robbed and together they helped him upstairs.

Only when Mycroft was finally lying in his bed and about to fall asleep did he wonder how Stone or the carriage driver knew where he lived.


	7. Chapter 7

A cold wind was blowing and Mycroft was glad he had chosen the thicker scarf as well as his greatcoat for his excursion. Usually the temperatures were quite agreeable in March but not tonight. Dark clouds obscured the moon, assisting Mycroft in picking the lock of a gate and entering Regent's park unobserved. The park lay in silence. The rustling of wind in the tree's branches and the occasional cry of a bird were the only sounds while he hurried towards the boat-house.

Mycroft admitted to himself that he was a little more nervous going out this night, in retrospect of the events last evening but the excitement he felt at the prospect of meeting David was eclipsing his anxiety.

The dark shape of the building came into view and Mycroft slowed down to look around. A low whistle came from his right and he could make out the outline of a man.

Greg had been nervous, not certain Edwin would come. Aside from the fact that he was drawn to the man himself, he felt it was time they made some progress. The investigations were taking far too much time. He needed to present Commissioner Kent some results.

When Greg caught sight of the elegantly dressed man, he wondered for a second how he had managed to climb over the fence in his greatcoat. He whistled to alert him of his presence.

Mycroft hurried towards the waiting man, who ushered him inside the boat-house.

Once they were inside, Greg closed the door and lit a candle he had brought. There were no windows but he didn't dare to light one of the lamps. Light might shine though one of the cracks in the wooden walls and give them away, should somebody else intrude upon the park's grounds.

Greg shivered slightly in his jacket because it wasn't much warmer inside the boat-house but at least they were sheltered from the wind.

"I'm glad, you're here," Mycroft said. An understatement.

"So am I." Greg gave his counterpart a dazzling smile that made Mycroft's knees go weak.

They shook hands and Mycroft added a soft touch to Greg's upper-arm with his other hand, while he fought the urge for even closer contact.

"I presume you haven't been followed." Greg placed the candle on the hull of one of the boats and put two cushions from a shelf on a wooden corner bench for them to sit on. It was a small bench and they had to sit rather close but neither man minded that their legs touched in a few places.

Mycroft just shook his head. He kept to himself that his whole knowledge of spying came from a pile of books he had read since he had got this assignment. In those books he had also discovered several methods of discovering if one was followed. As far as he could tell, they were safe. However, he had never seen the person who had knocked him down the day before.

"I don't think I have been followed but yesterday I was robbed and didn't see it coming."

The eyes of the policeman went wide. "Oh my god, what happened? Are you alright." Brown eyes, filled with concern, roamed over Mycroft's face and body, joined by a hand that first touched his face and then his shoulder.

"Yes, quite alright. I only have a bump on the back of my head but a bit of money as well as my ring was stolen." Mycroft held up his right hand. "I inherited it from my grandfather, Mortimer Holmes."

"Have you reported it?" The policeman's hand had moved from Mycroft's shoulder and rested now on his forearm.

"Yes, I went to the police in the afternoon," Mycroft replied, lowering his gaze. He hadn't been feeling well the better part of the day and was more than a little ashamed that he had been knocked off his feet so easily.

He told the policeman about his meeting with Lord Percy and that he had been found and brought home by George Henry Stone.

Greg listened attentively and frowned when Mycroft felt silent. "I wonder why Stone didn't alert the police. These days carriage drivers almost all have a whistle to call for help and his own is certainly no exception."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and shrugged. "I don't see what he would want with my money or my ring."

"Perhaps the robbery was just a red herring and he wanted something else."

"I'm not exactly useful, flat on my back."

The policeman grinned. "Unless somebody wants his wicked way with you." Mycroft blushed and much to his chagrin, the hand was removed from his forearm.

"I doubt we'll find the answer tonight. I haven't been able to tell you much when we met the day before yesterday in the club and since my investigations have been under way somewhat longer than yours, shall I continue bringing you up to date?" Greg asked and turned his insolent grin into a smile.

"Yes, please."

For a moment Greg wondered what it would take to hear Edwin's "yes, please" spoken in much more desperate fashion but right now they had to concentrate on the case.

"Initially the police began investigating a club called 'Rembrandt's Home'."

"I know, Sherlock told me about it," Mycroft said without thinking, still under the influence of the smile.

' _Oops!_ '

Greg blinked. "Sherlock talked to you about it?"

'Tattletale!' Mycroft scolded himself, before he admitted that Sherlock was his brother. He bit his lower-lip in embarrassment.

"I suspected you were related," Greg replied, less upset about the prospect than Mycroft had feared. "I met him two years ago and every so often he's helped me with my investigations. Not that constables usual do much investigation, yet here I am!"

Greg didn't tell Mycroft that he had discovered Sherlock during a raid in one of London's East End opium dens. Something about the drugged up kid had poked the policeman's too soft heart and instead of locking him up, he had fed him his own dinner and brought him home. Three days later Sherlock had shown up in Greg's room above the bakery and told him who had stolen a whole shipment of leather from a shoe manufacturer, helping the PC to make his first arrest.

Unless Sherlock was busy with some chemical experiments, these days he was compiling information on tobacco ash, he kept sticking his nose into police investigations more and more often.

"How much do you know?" Greg asked and moved an inch closer to his companion on the bench. "No need to bore you with information you already have."

The candle-light reflected in his brown eyes and Mycroft thought that the temperature in the cold boat-house wasn't quite as low anymore.

"Not much," Mycroft said, glad the policeman neither seemed upset that Sherlock had talked to him nor that he was his brother.

Mycroft relayed what Sherlock had told him and Greg nodded.

"Since then we have made progress but unfortunately plenty of what Sherlock and I have found out and what we suspect lacks both evidence and motive. So far there are three suspects. John Carson, Seamus Wentworth and Daniel Higgins. Carson is a partner of ship-owners and he was, by the way, the one who had been watching you the other night in the Red Ring. Higgins runs a glazier's workshop and Wentworth imports beef from Ireland and exports steam engines. They all were members of ' _Rembrandt's Home_ ' and friends of the late Patrick O'Shea."

"I presume O'Shea was a member of 'Rembrandt's Home' too?" Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. "Yes. He worked for a company that trades in different types of oil; linseed oil, poppyseed oil etcetera. The fact that he would be allowed membership to ' _Rembrandt's Home_ ' in the first place is baffling, not to mention his acquaintance with the afore named members."

"What is it that makes those men suspects?" Mycroft asked.

"Except Carson, they're all from Ireland, which isn't a crime but Sherlock and I doubt that's coincidence. First, they all have more money than the business they run could account for. Of course, they could have inherited the money but Sherlock told me that was not the case. Ever so often there are rumours that Wentworth's shipments between England contain more goods than declared in the shipment papers but proof has never been found."

Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And here's a really interesting fact. Our unknown killer, who despatched Patrick O'Shea, did it by slitting his throat. Does the name Frances Coles ring a bell?"

Mycroft frowned. "Yes, she was killed last year in February, the last alleged victim in the Whitechapel murders."

Greg knocked on the wooden bench three times and nodded. "Correct. But here's the interesting fact. As you know, Frances Coles was a prostitute. She was among those women who were discovered in ' _Rembrandt's Home_ ' when it was searched but unlike the others, Miss Coles was back on the streets a few hours after her arrest."

Mycroft hummed softly. "And I presume Sherlock thinks that the person who killed Frances Coles is the same one who killed Patrick O'Shea?"

"Exactly!" Greg exclaimed. "And I tend to believe him. He said the weapon was probably the same and O'Shea's throat was cut left to right and back too. Taking into account that O'Shea was about eight inches taller than the woman and also stronger, it makes sense that the wounds would look a bit different to the unobservant eye."

"Hasn't there been a suspect in the case of Frances Coles?" Mycroft asked, annoyed that he didn't remember all the details that had been in the newspaper about the case but his policeman still looked pleased that he remembered as much.

"James Thomas Sadler, a friend of Frances Coles. For a while he was suspected to be Jack the Ripper. He was arrested but released later because he was at sea at the time of Coles' murder. And here's a very interesting detail. I discovered just recently that Sadler was working on one of John Carson's ships. What a coincidence." Greg's intonation made it quite clear that he didn't believe at all that it was a coincidence.

Mycroft was impressed. Those were truly interesting facts but they also made it clear that they were dealing with a dangerous group of intelligent men.

"I had the chance to talk to DI Reid, who was investigating the Whitechapel murders," Greg told Mycroft. "He knew about Frances Coles' arrest and her premature release but it was never found out who had signed her release papers."

Both men sat in silence for a few minutes until Mycroft saw that his companion was shivering from the cold. He was comfortable in his greatcoat but the jacket the policeman wore, wasn't nearly as thick.

"Perhaps we should meet again another time," Mycroft said. "It won't do if I told you about the forged paintings but have you freeze to death or catch pneumonia."

Greg decided that sadly it was a bit premature to ask Edwin to share the warmth of his greatcoat, and nodded reluctantly.

Stretching his long legs a little before he got up, Mycroft created some friction with the other man's legs that drew soft gasps from both of them. They looked at each other, their faces illuminated only by the flickering candle-light and like moths were drawn to light, both men were drawn to each other.

Mycroft's soft "yes" was all Greg needed to hear to lean in and kiss the other man. The kiss itself was chaste but it felt unbelievably right. Slipping his fingers into the thick brown mass of hair, that Mycroft had longed to touch since the moment he had laid eyes on the Gregorian Gladiator, he angled his head a little and leaned further into the kiss.

'Perfect,' Greg thought. 'Completely, utterly perfect.' He parted his lips slightly and let the tip of his tongue caress the other man's lips. The moan that spilled from Mycroft's throat made Greg's blood pool low in his abdomen and he deepened the kiss even further.

The touch of lips and caress of tongues quickly left both men trembling with desire but a sharp sound outside the boat-house made them jump like they had received an electric shock. Their hearts were hammering wildly in their chests and they hardly dared to breath while they listened carefully, but all they could hear was the rustling of the tree and the roaring of the wind that had picked up since they had entered the boat-house.

Mycroft stepped forward and beckoned Greg closer, to wrap him in his arms. "Same time tomorrow?" he murmured, his breath tickling the other man's skin.

"Absolutely," Greg replied, smiling, and he leaned in for another quick kiss, his fingertips gently tracing along Mycroft's jaw.

They returned the cushions to their place on the shelf before Greg blew out the candle and they left the boat-house. Next to the door they discovered the reason for the disturbance. A gust of wind had broken a branch from a tree and hurled it against the wooden wall. Both men first cursed softly but laughed when they caught each other doing the same; knowing the other felt as they did.

The door of the boat-house was locked again and they peered from the deep shadow of the building into the marginally lighter park. When Greg was certain that it was indeed safe to leave, he pressed one more kiss to his contact's lips and hurried home towards Camden Town. Mycroft left a few minutes later in the other direction, realizing only then that he still had to learn David's real name.

On his way back home Greg had a visible spring in his step and he even did a little jig half way between the park and his home. A tiny voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock Holmes whispered, that being careful with ones heart usually didn't involve kissing and showing telltale signs of falling in love but Greg couldn't care less. His gut feeling told him that kissing Edwin had been the right thing to do. In a time, when men who were favouring men over women were in danger of being thrown into prison, after a painful flogging, it was difficult to find somebody one could trust. Edwin Holmes though, whether that was his actual name or not, he did trust; with both his body and his heart.

Therefore, when Greg fell asleep, he was still smiling.

* * *

Facts:

DI Edmund John James Reid was head of the CID in the MET at the time of the Whitechapel Murders.

Frances Coles was murdered Friday, 13th February 1891 and is supposed to be Jack the Ripper's last victim.

James Thomas Sadler was a friend of Frances Coles. He was arrested and charged with her murder but was released later for lack of evidence.

The Criminal Code in 1892 stated that men who comitted an Act of Gross Indecency with another male person were liable to five years' of imprisonment and to be whipped.


	8. Chapter 8

Having written a solid chunk of the story I want to thank all those who're taking the time to read, to comment and of course those who declare the story being one of their favourite. An opinion is always welcome so please do tell me what you think.

* * *

Greg was roused by a loud knock on his door. It felt like only minutes had passed since he had lain down. He tumbled out of his bed, staggered to the door and opened it. His cousin Sabrina stood there, holding a candle.

"You have to get up and help. All three bakers from the Cadogan Hotel in Knightsbridge have fallend ill and since aunt Delia is known for her sweet-bread she's got the assignment from the hotel to bake it for them," Sabrina told him excitedly. "We can do the baking but you need to deliver it or we won't be able to finish the orders for our regular customers."

Greg rubbed his eyes and nodded. "I'll be downstairs in a few minutes." He yawned. "What time is it anyway?"

"Just after four," Sabrina replied and bounded down the stairs.

The urge to crawl back into his bed was overwhelming but Greg knew that this order was important for his family. It wasn't wise to keep the door shut as it could be fortune knocking on it.

Therefore he was sitting in a carriage just after five o'clock in order to deliver the baskets filled with bread. His clever aunt had added samples of her other bread for free. She told him to relay she did it in sympathy with the ill bakers but Greg knew that by introducing more of her products she hoped to land another noteworthy order from the posh hotel.

It was still quite early after he had delivered the bread but instead of heading straight back to the bakery, the policeman took a detour to the market at Covent Garden where he knew a fish monger who sold the best kippers. Since arriving in a carriage would ruin the price, Greg left at Charing Cross and walked the rest of the way.

Dick, the fish-monger, was a cheerful chap but this morning Greg was neither interested in stories about fish nor about Fanny, Dick's current girlfriend. He promised Dick a pint in a pub at another time and left.

Unfortunately, not a single hansom cab could be found and he set off on foot in the general direction of Tottenham Court Road to catch an underground train on the Hampstead Railway line to Camden Town. Normally Greg would have chosen a different route but being still tired from too little sleep as well as feeling elated from the meeting at the boat-house, he suddenly found himself at Seven Dials, one of the most notorious slums in London. At this time of morning all the pubs were closed and the area almost deserted. The policeman squared his shoulders and raised his chin to warn any would-be attacker that he was a formidable opponent but he passed only a short man, wrapped in a soldier's coat, who was limping slowly along the street.

Greg had just passed the column in the middle of Seven Dials and was about to continue along Mercer Street, when he heard a scream. It was still too dark to see but about fifty yards from his right he could make out the silhouette of two men. One man was just collapsing, the other looming over the crumbling figure.

"Oi!" Greg yelled, "leave him alone!" He began walking towards the scene purposefully. The man who was standing upright, immediately turned and ran away.

Within seconds Greg reached the motionless man on the ground but suddenly he wasn't alone anymore.

"You follow him and I'll grab that doctor you just passed."

Startled Greg whirled around and found himself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes. The man had appeared so quietly out of the dark that his voice was the first intimation Greg had of his approach.

Time would be needlessly lost if he hesitated, so Greg thrust his packet with the kippers into Sherlock's arms and ran after the man.

Sherlock turned and hurried down Mercer Street to fetch the man with the limp, who he had deduced must be a doctor.

Greg ran as fast as he could but in the jumble of the buildings of the slum he knew it was useless. He took the time to look carefully inside a couple of yards he passed but eventually had to abort his failed pursuit.

Returning to the scene of crime, he saw Sherlock Holmes listening avidly to the man he recognised as the one with the limp he had passed earlier.

"You were not successful," Sherlock was scolding Greg without actually looking at him. "You took the wrong way."

"I... What?"

"The distinctive echo of the footsteps of the perpetrator revealed that he was fleeing through a yard with a wooden fence while you kept running next to a stonewall and then passed a house in which a large dog lives. Clearly you ran the wrong way." Sherlock sounded a bit bored but when the stranger, who was still kneeling next to the motionless figure on the ground, said "Amazing!" the young man perked up and looked quite joyful.

Greg gritted his teeth but offered his hand to the stranger when he saw the man had problems standing up.

"Thanks." The stranger was wincing slightly and shifted his weight so it rested on his cane instead of his right leg. Nodding at the figure at the ground he said, "The man is dead. The man was stabbed thrice; in his back, his stomach and his chest. There was nothing I could do."

Greg looked at him. The stranger looked a little worse for wear, as if until recently he had suffered from an illness, but he had intelligent eyes and a kind face.

"Doctor John Watson," the man introduced himself.

"Greg Lestrade," Greg replied and, pointing to the tall, silent figure who was watching them both avidly, he continued, "and this is Sherlock Holmes but you probably know each other."

"No." John Watson shook his head. "Never met him before."

Greg sighed upon seeing Sherlock's smug expression but he humoured the young man by asking how he had known that John Watson was a medical doctor.

Not so far away they heard the sound of a policeman's whistle and the answering whistles of a second and then a third one. Knowing that it would alarm his colleagues if they were too close to the corpse, Greg moved both John Watson and Sherlock a few feet.

Sherlock had opened his mouth to explain how he had deduced that John was a doctor when something caught his attention. With two long strides he was next to the corpse and took something from the dead man's hand. He only scrutinized the item for a second before he hid it in the pocket of his coat. He stood up and went back to stand next to Greg the moment a policeman came running around a corner.

"Sherlock, what have you found?" Greg whispered urgently. "You can't take evidence..."

"Shhhh," Sherlock shushed him. "Trust me, I'll explain later."

oOo

Mycroft found himself smiling while he was shaving that morning. Perhaps it was foolish but he already felt giddy with excitement that in another fifteen hours he would be seeing David again. Carefully he drew the sharp blade along his chin, removing the last bit of stubble before he washed his face and dabbed a soothing cream onto his sensitive skin. The last thing he wanted was to develop a rash that would repel the policeman.

Once Mycroft had finished his morning routine, he had breakfast, read the newspaper and at eight o'clock a courier brought mail and papers from his office, enabling Mycroft to do some of his regular work. That at least had been the initial idea but today he felt absolutely buoyant and found it hard to concentrate on his daily chores. He was not a day-dreamer but his thoughts kept straying to David and the mere thought of sharing more sultry kisses with this exceptional man made Mycroft's body tingle with anticipation.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, startling him from his thoughts that had nothing to do with the documents that were lying on the desk in front of him. With a sigh he picked up his pen and began to write, unaware that he was adorning his usually angular and somewhat boring looking hand-writing with almost frisky looking whirls and loops.

News always travels fast in the city of London so when Mycroft set foot into _Earl's Backyard_ around noon, the news of the murder in Seven Dials was already common knowledge within those walls. Mycroft was, without any doubt, the smartest man in London but his brain filtered out much of what he heard in order for him to be able to primarily focus on the most important pieces of information. Therefore he was shaken to the core when from the jumble of gibberish he was bombarded with upon entering the club's salon, his brain highlighted two words; 'David' and 'murdered'.

"Isn't it terrible, Mr. Holmes, just terrible," Helen Webb cried. When Mycroft had entered the room, she had immediately spotted him and rushed over to link her arm with his. "Such a nice young man, brutally murdered." She dabbed her face with a handkerchief, missing completely that the man she hung to for comfort, was suddenly white as a sheet.

"What happened?" Mycroft croaked, hoping that his David bore a different name to that of the man Helen Webb talked about.

"Do you remember David Porter, the talented young man who had been playing the piano the other week? He started coming here only a couple of months ago."

The relief that flooded through Mycroft was so intense, he had to sit down. A probably innocent young man had been killed, leaving his family and friends to mourn and one should feel compassion but Mycroft couldn't find it in himself.

Helen Webb told him all she knew about David Porter, which was a lot, and Mycroft kept patting her hand and nodding gravely every so often, at the same time thanking a god he didn't believe in for having spared his David's life.

Although it was early in the afternoon, port and sherry was served to calm the upset club-members. Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if it was anything but a coincidence that a man had been killed, who's first name was David. Exploiting that almost everybody was upset, Mycroft managed to quiz the butler and quickly had the information that the only other club member whose first name was David had been a man in his seventies who was a member ever since _Earl's Backyard_ had been founded several years ago.

Mycroft needed time to think, which was impossible with Helen Webb droning on about poor David Porter. Under the pretence he would go and fetch her a glass of sherry, he managed to rid himself of the loquacious woman and found a quiet spot in the blissfully deserted reading-room; a room he already had rather fond memories of anyway.

Assuming that David Porter had been murdered for the sole reason that someone believed he was the policeman who was investigating the club, who could know that Mycroft had assigned the name David to him? Apart from David and Mycroft there was only Sherlock who knew and although the brothers had their differences, he trusted his younger sibling. Besides – why would Sherlock tell anyone and who? Neither Holmes brother was known for having a lot of friends, well, having any friend really. Could somebody have tempted Sherlock by offering drugs in exchange for information? That was a possibility but Mycroft doubted that it applied in this particular case.

There was one other option. Mycroft still couldn't recall a single detail about the assault on his person two days previously. Could somebody have forced the information from him? But who? George Henry Stone perhaps?

Mycroft sighed softly. He needed to find out more about the murder of David Porter. There was still the possibility that it wasn't related to the investigation and his worry completely unfounded.

* * *

Fact:

Seven Dials really had been one of the most notorious slums in London.

The Hampstead Railway line really was already operating in 1892, connecting e.g. Tottenham Court Road and Camden Town


	9. Chapter 9

The two police constables who had arrived first on the crime scene, were marching Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to the Holborn police station so that the trio could give their statements. So far they knew little. A young man by the name of David Porter had been stabbed to death by a man unknown, for reasons unknown.

It had taken all of Greg's considerable charm to prevent Sherlock's arrest. The young Holmes, being his usual impatient self, had kept hurling insults at the public authority present until a hefty kick to his shins by John Watson, who valued his freedom very much, had shut him up.

Accompanied now by two limping men, Greg and the constables arrived at the police station. Right in front of the station he spotted a girl, who had delivered messages for him before. She had a crippled hand but Greg knew her as reliable and so he had handed her a quickly scribbled note for his aunt, saying that he probably wouldn't return before noon. He also trusted the girl with his package of fish, as the kippers would undoubtedly suffer if they weren't stored or prepared soon.

Having one less worry, Greg took a seat in the corridor of the police station, next to John Watson, who leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and looked as if any moment he would fall from the bench they sat on. Greg was about to ask if there was something he could do, when the doctor opened one eye and peered at him.

"I'm fine," he said, "just very tired. I was on my way home when your friend stopped me and demanded my help."

Greg barked out a laugh. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes doesn't ask. But he's alright." John Watson's soft huff sounded more amused than tired.

"He told me he deduced that I am a doctor from my hands, my clothes and of course my bag." He pointed at the Gladstone bag that stood at his feet. "He even guessed my name almost right just from my initials."

Greg had to angle his head to see the letters 'J. W.' engraved into the leather. How Sherlock had been able to spot them in the semi-darkness of the slum, was beyond him.

Sherlock came out of the office where he had given his statement and John was called inside. Greg offered the doctor a hand, when he saw he was struggling to get up, but the man stubbornly shook his head and limped to the open door with determination.

"Do you know what happened to him?" Greg asked, when Sherlock had taken a seat.

"Shot in the shoulder during the campaign in Afghanistan, caught enteric fever while he was recuperating in India and was dispatched home to England in the attempt to improve his health," Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Greg managed not to gawk at the young man who looked positively smug again. "Didn't you say he was a doctor? And he's limping. Why would he do that when being shot in the shoulder?" he asked, knowing his questions would earn him an insult or two. Greg was not disappointed.

"Buffoon!" Sherlock shouted, "obviously he served in the army as a doctor." And then Sherlock rattled off information about a tan-line, physiological reasons for the doctor's limp and something about the man's complexion that made the policeman once again to look at him in awe.

Another hour later, once they all had given their statements, the trio could finally leave the police-station.

"I don't know about you but I could use a cup of coffee," Greg told the other men.

"He only drinks tea," Sherlock replied after a side glance at the ex-army doctor.

Said ex-army doctor shrugged upon Greg's questioning look. "He is right," he told Greg before he gave Sherlock a smile that left the young Holmes visibly flustered.

They sat down at a table in a small café close to the police station. Holmesian intelligence and observation skills were not required to understand that John Watson's nervous look around meant that his financial situation wasn't exactly good. Greg was about to open his mouth to offer paying for a round of hot beverages when Sherlock said he would do just that. The policeman shook his head in amazement. That was without a doubt a first. Before Greg could ask the doctor what kind of spell he had cast upon Sherlock, a waitress came to their table to take their orders.

Only when they all had their respective drinks in front of them, did Greg finally lean over the table to ask the question that had had him twitching ever since they had left the crime scene. "Now tell me, what evidence did you take at the crime scene?"

"I'll tell you, once you answered a question first," Sherlock told him. "The man you followed, did you recognise him?"

Greg frowned and shook his head. "No, should I have?"

Sherlock hummed softly and moved his head to and fro. "That depends. Would you have recognised my brother?"

"Edwin? Of course, I would," Greg replied. "Don't tell me that was him."

"It wasn't him." From the pocket of his coat Sherlock pulled a ring and put it on the table. There was still a bit of blood on the golden band but the letters 'M. H.' engraved on the inside were clearly visible.

"The victim was clearly left handed but he had this ring in his right. His attacker must have put it there to frame my brother," Sherlock said.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "But where lies the connection between David Porter and..?"

The moment the penny dropped, Sherlock made the connection too. "David!" they said in unison.

"Who's David?" John asked.

"That's him," Sherlock replied, pointing at the policeman sitting across from him.

"I thought your name was Greg?"

"It is," Greg replied.

For a moment John's face revealed that he had no idea what Greg and Sherlock were talking about but then he furrowed his brows.

"Are you trying to make fun of me?" Suddenly all resemblance with the gentle doctor were gone and replaced with an angry looking soldier.

Sherlock moved an inch away from the man in surprise, while Greg held up his hands to calm the angry man.

"In a nutshell," he said, "I'm working undercover and for the duration I use the name David."

Taking a sip of his coffee, Greg wondered why he told John Watson all this. Five hours ago the man had been a stranger and now he was privy to details of his investigations, he would only share with Sherlock and Edwin. Perhaps it was time to get his questions answered.

"What can you tell me about the stab wounds?" he asked.

The doctor took another sip of his tea before he set down the cup and folded his hands to rest his chin on top of them.

"The first stab went into the stomach and was meant to punish the victim," he said.

"To punish him?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Do you know the Japanese ritual of seppuku?"

"It's suicide committed with a sword, like harakiri, isn't it?" Greg asked.

"Seppuku and harakiri are the same thing," Sherlock supplemented.

"Exactly," the doctor agreed. "The man committing seppuko would first cut his stomach but dying from such a wound is a very painful. Therefore an attendant was present to end his suffering by cutting his throat." John downed the rest of his tea before he continued.

"The victims wound in the stomach wasn't simply a stab wound. The perpetrator drew the blade almost an inch and I believe it was also twisted. The wounds to the back and the chest were added later and in short order to end the man's life quickly. Probably when you were approaching,"

"The front of the victim's clothes were drenched with blood. The perpetrator must have held him upright while he tried to disembowel him."

Greg felt suddenly sick to the stomach. If John's and Sherlock's theories were correct, somebody was taking this investigation quite personal. He and Edwin but also Sherlock and now John Watson needed to exercise vigilance.


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry it took me so long to update. Had to finish the story commission from Rupert Graves' birthday auction first. The next chapter is well under way though.

* * *

That night was a little warmer but Greg had added an extra layer of clothes before he headed to Regents Park. He had taken a detour and climbed over the fence at a different spot to the night before and even inside the park he had stopped ever so often in particularly dark corners or between bushes to check if he had been followed. When he finally arrived at the boathouse, he could make out an Edwin-shaped form standing under the branches of a weeping-willow. Greg patted the pocket of his trousers in which Edwin's ring rested, securely wrapped in a handkerchief. He gave a low whistle and went to pick the lock of the boathouse door. Slipping inside he held the door open for Edwin and once the man had followed him inside, he closed it softly.

He had barely time to say hello, before he was engulfed in a hug. The slightly taller man held his policeman close and buried his nose in Greg's hair, relieved that he was unharmed. For the better part of a minute they stood in the dark and held each other tightly, listening to the other's breathing and heartbeat.

When Mycroft spoke, his lips were grazing Greg's cheek. "I was terribly worried. There has been a murder this morning. David Porter, a member of ' _Earl's Backyard_ _'_ has been killed. I was afraid it had been you," Mycroft confessed.

For an answer Greg ran his hands over Mycroft's back in soothing circles before he caressed the man's cheek and loosened the embrace.

"Let me light the candle," Greg whispered. He pulled the candle and matches from his pocket and just like the other night he placed the burning candle on the bow of one of the boats.

"There, better," Greg said and smiled softly. Placing two cushions right next to each other on the bench, they sat down. They sat close enough for their thighs and shoulders to touch right away, and Mycroft took the other man's hand, caressing the calloused palm that was so different from his own.

Greg leaned against Mycroft's body, enjoying the warmth he radiated. "So it wasn't just Sherlock and I who made the connection."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded and summarized how he had almost caught the perpetrator, met Sherlock and about John Watson."

Mycroft, who listened attentively, was clearly taken aback when the policemen outlined how much information both Greg and Sherlock had entrusted the doctor with.

"And you are certain my brother and Doctor Watson aren't known to one another?"

"Sherlock said he deduced John Watson's name from the initials on the bag he carried and the doctor himself seemed to be as puzzled as most people are when they meet Sherlock. He was puzzled but also intrigued. Perhaps it was foolish to trust a stranger but there was an immediate connection between him and your brother."

Both men were clearly amazed because people who accepted the younger Holmes instead of being alienated, were exceptionally rare.

To proceed further, Greg reached into his pocket, removed the ring and put it in Mycroft's palm.

"Sherlock found it at the scene of crime. We believe that whoever killed David Porter had put it into his fist for the police to find."

Mycroft scrutinized the ring in the light of the candle. Although he had no doubts his brother had been right, he needed to see for himself that it was indeed his.

"Unfortunately I believe that our investigations are very much related to the murder of David Porter and whoever killed him had all intentions to frame you," Greg said.

For a long minute Mycroft furrowed his brow and thought about what he had just learned before he spoke. "I think it would be prudent if I refrain from wearing the ring until this case is closed and the true murderer has been found." Once again, wrapping the ring into the handkerchief, he placed it into his own pocket.

Feeling that the man next to him was more upset than he let on, Greg tugged him closer to his side. Eventually Mycroft turned his head, kissed the policeman's temple and cleared his throat.

"I wonder what it is you have found out that aggravated them enough to want you dead?"

"I honestly don't know. Right now I'm feeling I have accomplished nothing. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, poking around without even knowing what it is I'm searching for. The only real progress I ... well, Sherlock and I have made, was discovering who was most likely involved in the smuggling and the murders we talked about. It's only people's names and we can't even tie them to the crimes." He hung his head.

Mycroft pulled him a bit closer to his side. "Don't hide your light under a bushel, David. You are a very good policeman. Once we have found all the pieces of the puzzle, everything will fall into place."

The smile the compliment brought to the man's face, convinced Mycroft that he had said the right thing.

"I'm going to check my notes as soon as I get home to see if I have overlooked something. Unless ..." Greg froze for a moment.

Mycroft looked at him. "Unless what?"

Greg shook his head. "No, it's a stupid idea," he replied, avoiding the look from Mycroft's intense blue eyes. "Forget it."

"Let me hear it, David, and then we decide together whether it's a stupid idea or not."

"OK. What if it wasn't me but my colleagues who did something that was not related to the case but spooked our group of people? Like searching a place or arresting someone."

Mycroft rubbed his chin. "In my opinion that is very good thinking. Something that's not related at all to this case but it makes them think you discovered information that leads to one of their own."

"First thing tomorrow morning I'm going in to check if something relevant has occurred yesterday or the day before," Greg said, relieved Edwin didn't regard him as an idiot.

"It must have happened earlier than that," Mycroft mused. "Two days previously I was mugged and I'm fairly certain that whoever did it already had the intention to blame me for ... ah ... the crime."

Mycroft couldn't bring himself to say 'for your murder'. He hardly knew David, having seen him for the first time a mere week ago but already the thought of loosing him was crushing.

A tremor ran through Mycroft's body and he squirmed in his seat before he managed to compose himself and continue.

"Allow them at least a day to come up with the idea; I'd say you better check Friday or Saturday last week."

The awkward moment had passed and both men looked at each other, their eyes gleaming with excitement that perhaps they were about to achieve an essential breakthrough.

Snuggling closer they fell silent. Mycroft rested his cheek against Greg's head and made a content sound.

'I am very happy,' Greg realized. He knew it was more than a bit premature but he had a very good feeling about the direction his relationship with Edwin was taking.

They would have been content just to sit there but they knew they had work to do.

"I believe I've promised to tell you about my own investigations," Mycroft said eventually, breaking the silence.

Greg nodded.

"Last October I travelled to the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg where I discovered that the painting 'Penitent Magdalene' by Titan had been replaced with a forgery," Mycroft began. "I talked to the curator responsible for this painting. He told me that while the section of the museum had undergone restoration, the painting had been in storage over the course of a whole month. Nobody but me had noticed so far that a forgery was on display. Once I had explained how I had detected that the forgery instead of the original painting was on display, he beseeched me not to tell anyone. He said his life would be forfeited should anyone find out."

"Obviously it was an extremely good copy," Greg said.

"Forgery!" Mycroft couldn't help but correct him.

"Well, yes, forgery. Anyway, how did you recognise it wasn't the original painting?"

"I presume you have never seen the 'Penitent Magdalene'. She's crying in that painting and Titian caught her so masterfully you can't help but feel like crying yourself when you're facing the original painting. The fact that I wasn't affected by it like before made me look closer and I saw tiny mistakes the forger had made."

The policeman was clearly impressed. "So your powers of observations are as good as Sherlock's."

"Mine are better than Sherlock's," Mycroft replied automatically but although he had spoken the truth he couldn't help but feel like a bragger. To cover his embarrassment Mycroft continued. "The curator in Saint Petersburg told me that a friend who worked in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow suspected that a very famous Byzantine icon of the Virgin and Child on display in said gallery had been replaced with a forged icon. I confirmed his suspicion before I went to other museums and galleries in Italy, Spain, France and Germany. All together I have identified thirty-four forged masterpieces," Mycroft concluded.

"That is a lot!" Greg exclaimed. He tried to wrap his mind around the amount of planning and skill the group of forgers represented. The thoughts were so very mind-boggling that he almost didn't notice when Edwin took his hand and began caressing his fingers again.

"I wonder why more of the curators or other experts haven't recognised the forgeries."

Mycroft shrugged. "People see what they want to see and on top of that most people see but they don't observe."

"So," Greg asked, "how is it possible to distinct a forged painting from the original? Your employer was willing to take your word for it but if it goes to court a judge will ask for stronger evidence."

"Spoken like a true policeman," Mycroft said. "I'm convinced you're going to rise quickly through the ranks."

The policeman in question blushed slightly and lowered his gaze upon the praise, prompting Mycroft to rub his hand assuringly.

"But you are right, of course. I should begin to think about proving the forgery. The chemical composition of the paint that was used by the forgers would be a good place to start. For example, I seriously doubt they would use ultramarine with lazurite won from lapis lazuli."

"Lapis lazuli as in the gemstone?" Greg asked.

"Yes," Mycroft nodded. "The pigments of the ultramarine used by painters like Titian or Botticelli consisted of ground lapis lazuli. The pigment is still extremely expensive and the stones with the highest quality come from Afghanistan, a country we're currently barely on speaking terms with. The forgers most likely used the synthetic ultramarine. It is not only considerably cheaper but readily available for several decades now."

"Synthetic ultramarine?" Greg asked, sounding slightly distracted.

Mycroft launched into the explanation how synthetic ultramarine had been developed but quickly had an inkling he had lost his listener along the way.

"David, are you following me?" he asked.

"Uh, yes." Greg blinked a bit owlishly. "Although you are quite distracting, Edwin."

Mycroft followed the man's gaze and had to smile. Unwittingly he had kept playing with the man's hand and the way he just caressed the fingers appeared to distract him thoroughly. Caressing the skin between two fingers with a purposefully gentle stroke, he heard him gasp softly.

"You like that," he stated. "I didn't know that the side of your fingers were so receptive to touch."

"They haven't been before," Greg told him. "It is your touch that makes my skin receptive."

"Oh." Mycroft smiled softly and was clearly pleased by the explanation.

Greg cleared his throat, forcing himself to return to the initial subject. "If chemical components of the paint are evidence, I presume ultramarine made from lapis lazuli should be easy enough to distinguish from the synthetic version."

"Unfortunately not. I'm not a chemist but as far as I know the chemical formula of both substances is identical. I'm certain it is possible to make the distinction but I don't know how."

Greg was dumbstruck that Edwin didn't see the obvious. "Then why don't you ask your brother?"

Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sherlock is a brilliant chemist. Either he knows how to make the distinction or he should be able to find out."

Adoration shone in Mycroft's eyes as he looked at the policeman whose own superior had called a twit. He cradled the man's face in his hands. "You truly are as clever as you are lovely, David," he told him. "Tomorrow I want to talk to the employer of the late Patrick O'Shea but first I'm going to talk to Sherlock. Perhaps we have the chance to talk after the show otherwise we'll meet again here on Friday."

They sat in silence for a while before Greg spoke up.  
"I have so many questions," he told Mycroft before leaning closer. "I'd like to know all about you but I also want to tell you about myself, about my life."

Mycroft nuzzled into the man's hair and pressed his lips to the warm skin behind one ear. "I feel the same but right now it is too dangerous. We will get to know each other properly when this case is solved."

They traded kisses and touches for several minutes, completely enamoured with each other but both men had work to do the following day and it was getting late.

"Are you going to come to the show again tomorrow?" Greg asked, hinting that on Thursday he would star again as the Gregorian Gladiator.

"I wouldn't miss it for all the tea in China," Mycroft replied, before they stood up and got ready to leave.

Like the night before, they put everything back in order before more kisses were shared in the dark. They would see each other again in less than twenty-four hours and even two days wasn't long, the moment they walked towards their respective homes even less than one felt like an eternity.


	11. Chapter 11

"Mr Holmes, have you heard?" Martha Hudson threw the door open a split second after she had knocked. "Masterpieces stolen from museums around the world!" she exclaimed, waving The Times in Mycroft's face.

Mycroft hadn't heard but he knew. That was non of Mrs Hudson's business though. "As I got up only half an hour ago and you're still in possession of the newspaper I can't claim that I've read the article," he told her.

With a huff she put the newspaper onto his desk. " _The Fortune Teller_ has been stolen from the Louvre and other paintings from galleries in Russia, Spain and Italy," she told him. "Isn't it dreadful? What has become of this world?"

"Dreadful indeed," Mycroft agreed. "Perhaps breakfast and a cup of tea to keep up the appearance of normality?"

His landlady stalked out of the room to fetch his breakfast. "Sarcasm is not very becoming," she told Mycroft, before she slammed the door shut with so much force that it rattled his teeth.

When she returned with his breakfast, Mycroft had already finished reading the article. The Times wrote that an unknown source had leaked the information to one of their journalists that several masterpieces had been replaced with forgeries. It had been implied that the museums had, although aware of these crimes, been too embarrassed to admit the scandal. The newspaper listed several paintings Mycroft already knew about but that Caravaggio's 'The Fortune Teller' had been stolen from the Louvre as well as a Jan van Eyck painting from a museum in Bruges was new to him.

Sipping his tea and eating his breakfast, Mycroft quickly perused the rest of the newspaper. Naturally, the one year anniversary of the collision between the SS Utopia and the HMS Anson in the bay of Gibraltar took up a whole page. People were lamenting again over this tragic accident that had cost the lives of more then five hundred passengers, and the army was accused of corruption and nepotism because they had yet to prosecute the ship's captain for his negligence.

The rest of the news was hardly worth the paper it had been printed on and soon Mycroft was on his way to pay his brother a visit. Sherlock's dismal flat at Montague Street was deserted but found his brother in the chemical laboratory at the hospital. For a minute or so he indulged in watching his younger sibling working at his usual table. Sherlock was immersed in his work, surrounded by an assortment of bottles, test tubes and little Bunsen lamps. Scribbling notes and bobbing his head in obvious excitement, Sherlock's dark hair bounced in a fashion that reminded Mycroft of a child rather than a grown man.

oOo

The moment the elder Holmes took another step into the room, Sherlock turned his head towards his visitor and studied him for a second before he returned his attention to the test tubes next to his booklet.

"Did you come to spy on me?" Sherlock asked without looking at his brother. "Or what do I owe the dubious honour your company?"

"Can't I just drop by to see how my dear baby-brother is faring?" the older man replied.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Actually I need your help as a chemist."

Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared under the mop of curls that hung over his forehead. "Did you just say you need my help?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, I did." For a moment he considered to add a snappish remark but decided against it. He hadn't come to bicker with his brother, as much as he enjoyed their verbal duels.

"If I provided the samples, would you be able to distinct synthetic ultramarine from the ultramarine made from lapis lazuli even though their chemical formulas are exactly the same?"

"I need to do some research but provided with samples and the right equipment I certainly will."

"Mycroft nodded. "Good. David suggested that we need to find evidence in order to prosecute the forgers eventually."

"I am surprised, brother dear, that the two of you did more than just canoodle."

Sherlock laughed when his sibling utterly failed to look aloof.

"We enjoyed some conversation and I believe that David is not only interested in the paintings because of the case but has high regards for the artistic aspects," Mycroft explained.

"Art!" the younger Holmes scoffed. "There is more beauty in science than those so called masterpieces."

"When I was in St. Petersburg I met a man by the name of Maxim Gorky. He said that just as science is the intellect of the world, art is its soul," Mycroft retorted.

Abruptly Sherlock turned in a petulant flurry of his lab-coat and walked back to the table he had previously occupied. "Get me the samples and I'll get you the evidence. Good day, Mycroft."

Familiar with his siblings dismissive behaviour, Mycroft bid him good-bye. He had work to do anyway, as much as he would have enjoyed at least another few minutes with Sherlock.

* * *

Fact:

"The good qualities in our soul are most successfully and forcefully awakened by the power of art. Just as science is the intellect of the world, art is its soul."  
A quotation by Maxim Gorky's Untimely Thoughts: Essays on Revolution, Culture, and the Bolsheviks, 1917-1918 _  
_


	12. Chapter 12

First let me apologize profusely that I neglected this story for so long. There were other projects and afterwards a bit of writer's block got in the way. But now the story continues and I am going to finish it before I'll start writing anything else.

* * *

When Mycroft arrived at _Aubrey's Oils_ he was led into the office of the company's owner by a boy about twelve years of age. The boy introduced himself as Rufus Aubrey, son of James Aubrey, the owner of the company.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Mycroft greeted James Aubrey, extending his hand. "I'm employed by Lloyd's of London, who want me to look into the untimely death of Patrick O'Shea," Mycroft explained. "You see, Mr. Aubrey, the circumstances of Mr. O'Shea's demise are somewhat peculiar and until we have investigated it thoroughly, his widow won't see a shilling."

"O'Shea was married?" Aubrey cried.

"Ah, yes. His widow lives in Cork where she's tending to their son and her husband's parents. Apparently he worked in London because he had found no work in Ireland." From the police files Mycroft knew that O'Shea actually wasn't married but he had made up the story about the insurance and the grieving widow to get information from the man's former employer.

Aubrey produced an angry huff. "He didn't act like a married man and I somehow doubt, Mr. Holmes, that he sent any money to his wife." He held up a finger. "The reason though is not that he lacked funds. Quite the opposite."

"How do you mean?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward.

"Patrick O'Shea came here about two years ago, looking for work. One of my employees had disappeared just one week earlier and O'Shea agreed to work without payment until I had formed my own opinion upon his value as a worker. I gave him a chance and before long I was quite happy because it looked like I had hired an intelligent and hard-working man. O'Shea was punctual, reliable and worked accurately."

Aubrey shifted in his seat. He looked at his son, who had taken a seat on a stool in a corner of the office, listening attentively. "Rufus, it is not right to speak ill of the dead but I have to make an exception." The boy nodded.

Turning his gaze to Mycroft again, Aubrey continued.

"The oils my company distribute are of high quality and my customers know me as an honest man. About one year ago I got the first complaints that the weight of the barrels we delivered differed. It wasn't much, just a few ounces here and there but enough that my customers noticed. First I thought something was wrong with the bottling or the scales but everything worked perfectly well. Then I began to notice that it concerned only the oils that were handled by O'Shea. Eventually I suspected that he was extracting oil from the barrels but when I asked him he denied that he had anything to do with it. Curiously, once I had talked to him, the irregularities stopped."

"But this isn't all, is it?" Mycroft inquired.

"No." Aubrey pressed is lips together before he continued. "My workers can buy our products at a special price, Mr. Holmes. It's usually only small amounts for personal use but I learned that O'Shea bought quantities that were clearly too much even for a large family. He even convinced two fellow workers who had never purchased any oil before to buy their quota for him."

"Did he explain what the oil was for?" Mycroft asked, clearly intrigued.

"He was killed the night before I could ask him but I am convinced he sold it and made a pretty penny along the way."

Mycroft tapped a finger against his nose and pondered for a moment about what he had heard. "The oil he bought, what kind of oil was it?" he asked eventually.

"Linseed and poppyseed-oil. The same oil which, I'm more convinced than ever, he stole before he began buying for a bargain price."

"What are those oils used for?"

"There are various purposes for the oil but both are most commonly used in producing oil-paint."

Mycroft had expected as much but he frowned like he had to consider the answer in order to come up with the next question.

"Do you know who he might have sold or given the oil to?"

Aubrey shook his head.

"Perhaps you saw him with individuals outside his work here."

"No." Aubrey shook his head again but out of the corner of his eyes, Mycroft saw Rufus shifting in his stool and biting his lower lip.

"One last question, Mr. Aubrey. What was it that gave you the impression Mr. O'Shea wasn't married?"

Aubrey thought about his answer carefully. "I think it was mostly the way he dressed. I'm not a close-fisted employer but I pay regular wages. The clothes Mr. O'Shea wore were expensive. I would even dare to describe them as flamboyant. It were clothes a man would wear to draw attention to himself. Furthermore he arrived in a hansom-cab every so often and when he talked about his weekends it sounded as if he spent his time in a gentleman's club, if you can believe it."

Mycroft shook his head although he very well could believe that the man had spent time in such an establishment.

"Well, I thank you for your time, Mr. Aubrey." Mycroft stood up and shook the man's hand again. "Perhaps Master Rufus would kindly show me out," he suggested in a tone like he was humouring the boy's enthusiasm for learning the trade.

"Yes, Rufus, show Mr. Holmes out," James Aubrey agreed, looking proudly at his offspring who sprang eagerly to his feet.

Once outside Mycroft walked to the waiting carriage that had delivered him. Before he climbed inside though he turned to Rufus.

"Do you want to tell me something about Mr. O'Shea?" he asked.

Rufus bit his lip again but he nodded. "My father doesn't want me to go to the market on Fleet Street but one morning before school I went there to meet a friend." The way Rufus pronounced the word friend, made Mycroft wonder if he had gone to see a girl.

"But you also saw Mr. O'Shea at the market?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, he talked to a man who sat inside a carriage. It was a private carriage not one of these." The boy waved his hand at the carriage Mycroft was about to enter. "Mr. O'Shea looked like he was in trouble. He was pale and wringing his hands."

"Did you hear what had got him into trouble."

"No." Rufus shook his head emphatically. "And I never saw the man in the carriage. The only thing I know is that the driver's name was Jansen because the driver of another carriage called out to him."

Seeing clearly that the boy wanted to go back inside, Mycroft thanked him and climbed into the carriage. It headed towards Earl's Backyard at a leisurely pace, giving Mycroft time to contemplate what he had learned.

oOo

While Mycroft was talking to Sherlock, Greg had had a meeting with Thomas Kent, who then had ordered an overview of the reports of police activities between Thursday and Saturday of the past week. Naturally Kent hadn't lent a hand and Greg spent the better part of the day skimming through an amount of paper that rivalled the size of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Knowing he needed to make choices for there was no way he could read even the headlines of all activities, Greg concentrated on investigations in London's areas that were better off. Still he had managed only a third of his workload until he needed to leave to get to Earl's Backyard in time for his appearance as the Gregorian Gladiator.

He arrived just in time to get ready and change before entering the Red Ring. Peeping through a hole in the wooden wall, he tried to detect Edwin among the audience. The corners of Greg's mouth curled with fond amusement when he spotted the man not in the back but in the second row; the first was saved for patrons who supported the club financially.

Edwin wore an elegant blue jacket in a fashionable cut that was flattering to the set of his shoulders as well as his eyes and Greg could do nothing but beat the flaring desire into submission in order to concentrate on the upcoming fight.

It was fortunate that his opponent was not the most skilled fighter for Greg's focus wasn't as good as it usually was. He did win but his performance earned him a rebuke from the ringmaster. Greg countered that he had done it on purpose to influence the odds in order to raise the odds. The ringmaster huffed and didn't look like he was completely convinced but agreed that perhaps that idea wasn't entirely bad.

The policeman would have liked nothing better to spend the rest of the evening with Edwin but he had work to do and the sooner they brought the case to its closure the better. Therefore he cleaned himself and got back to the police-station where the insurmountable pile of papers awaited him.


End file.
